


An Antichrist and a Non-Antichrist walk into a Tea Shop

by EdnaV



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adam Young Still Has Powers (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Footnotes, Friendship, Homophobia, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Warlock Dowling was a little shit but he's trying to be better, heaven is a bookshop in soho, it's that free will thing, or maybe he doesn't, this started as a one-shot but it got out of hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-04 23:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20478959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdnaV/pseuds/EdnaV
Summary: Adam looked at Warlock without flinching. “Question is: do you want to see them? And I mean it:youhave to choose. You've done bad things. Join the club. We've got an Antichrist,” — he gestured towards himself — “andan actual demon. And an angel, which, trust me, it's no better than a demon. You've just been ahumanasshole.”“Which is worse, though. If I were a demon or an Antichrist I wouldn't have much choice — and you managed to choose anyway. But I was completely free to be better, right?”Six years after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, Adam Young and Warlock Dowling have a chat.





	1. An Antichrist and a Non-Antichrist walk into a Tea Shop

**Author's Note:**

> Because Warlock and Adam deserve more love.
> 
> Written in three hours and two teapots, posted without a beta.
> 
> UPDATE: this was meant to be a one-shot. But then, in the first comment, [Periphyton](archiveofourown.org/users/Periphyton/pseuds/Periphyton) asked for a second chapter. Just so you know who’s to blame (it's me).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sorry if I'm late, the train...” said the boy formerly known as the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit. Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness.
> 
> “No, it's fine,” said the boy who had been once or twice (or for eleven years) mistaken for the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit. Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. “I was just wondering if I got the right place. Please, sit down, catch your breath. Which tea would you like? I still have to order mine, there are too many flavours to choose from.”

**** _London, Soho. Six years after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't._

_3pm._

When Adam Young finally arrived, Warlock Dowling was starting to worry.

“Sorry if I'm late, the train...” said the boy formerly known as the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit. Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness.

“No, it's fine,” said the boy who had been once or twice (or for eleven years) mistaken for the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit. Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. “I was just wondering if I got the right place. Please, sit down, catch your breath. Which tea would you like? I still have to order mine, there are too many flavours to choose from.”

Adam Young recalled a discussion that had gone on for some time on another sunny day, six years before.

“Are you sure? Then, spiced apple, please. If you've never been here, the Notting Hill mix is great. And next round's on me.”

“Gotcha,” said Warlock, getting up and going to the counter. He came back juggling two teapots and a plate of scones, and strangely calmer than before.

He sat down, and, making a vague gesture with his hand, he asked, “Do really wanted to do... this?”

“Of course I do,” replied Adam. “And _they_ are going to be head over heels, trust me.”

Warlock gave him a skeptical look. “You can... manipulate reality, though. I'm sorry, but I don't want you to _make them_...”

Adam's stare stopped him in his tracks.

“What I mean is — I don't mean that you'd do it _voluntarily_, but if I had organised all of this — _reunion_ — and I had superpowers, I'd end up using them.” Warlock paused for a second, long enough for his face to turn a deep shade of red. “Maybe you're better than me. Sorry.”

“No, it makes sense. I mean, I almost caused the Apocalypse.”

“That was six years ago.”

“That's the Apocalypse we're talking about.”

“Sure. But you didn't do it.”

“_My friends_ saved me.”

“You let them save you. Trust me, I know how these things work.”

Adam failed to find a retort.

Warlock was looking around the shop. The mismatched tables were full of students and creatives typing on their laptops and drinking tea. His mother would have called the place _very granola_, and she would've scoffed. His classmates would have called it _hipsterrific_, and they would've made jokes about British people. He just liked it, mostly because nobody had recognised him. _Yet_, he thought, and he felt a shiver run down his spine.

As if he could read his thoughts, Adam Young tried to soothe him.

“It's Soho. Nobody gives a shit, Warlock. Even if they recognised you. The other day _David Tennant_ was drinking coffee round the corner, he had to queue like everyone else.”

“My dad is not the most popular man in the world.”

“Point.”

Warlock drew a deep breath, leaned towards Adam, and whispered, “And they're right. From what I've seen, he's an asshole. I'm not surprised that he's promoting those fucked-up policies.”

“‘_From what I've seen?’_” asked Adam. “He's your dad. You must have seen him quite a bit.”

“Not really,” said Warlock. It sounded as if he were apologising. “It's not like he has_ time_ for me. Just as mom — she has to support him, always be there at his side at the rallies. When I was a child, it was mostly me and Nanny Ash... _Crowley_, you said, that's his real name?”

“That's what I call him. But I don't know how it's going to be with you. Just ask him. Actually, do. He cares about his name. One time, two of his old... people,” — Adam pointed at the table, or at something much below it, and went on, “they dropped by the bookshop. Called him — I think it was his deadname. Aziraphale was furious, almost doused them with Holy Water, and spent the afternoon fussing over Crowley — more than usual, I mean. But you're not one of...” — he pointed downwards again.

For a moment, Warlock considered running away. But there was something in his... _counterpart?_ he thought. _No, it's just the way this guy is, nevermind the whole Antichrist business._ He decided to come clean. Worst case scenario, Adam would've told him to get the fuck back to America.

“Did he ever tell you what happened at my eleventh birthday party?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Brother Francis... sorry, Aziraphale. Is it...?”

“Yep. You said it perfectly. Accent and all. So, what happened?”

“You told me that he was the magician.”

“Yes. He's terrible at it, isn't it?”

Adam was smiling. Warlock felt even worse. _And I deserve to feel like shit_.

“Yes. And anyway, even if it hadn't been him... we made a mess. We pelted him with cake. We shouted at him. One of my... _friends_...” He hesitated, then blurted out, “she called him a... well, _the f-word_.”

“Oh,” said Adam. “One of your... _friends_? Did you considered your friend after that?” he asked.

“She wasn't my actual friend to start with,” replied Warlock. “My father was sucking up to her father for an appointment.”

His tone was completely matter-of-fact. Adam felt sorry for him, but he knew that he had to ask.

“And _after_, did you tell her to take a walk?”

Warlock blushed, then he managed to look Adam in the eyes.

“No. I actually _laughed_. So, you see? I came here because you were incredibly kind to me, looking me up and sending me that nice email, and you stayed up until three in the morning just to chat with me...”

A slight puzzlement passed over Adam's face.

“Son of a diplomat, keeping track of time zones since I was five,” Warlock replied to the unspoken question, before getting back to his main train of thoughts. “Anyway — I understand that you might be curious, and it's okay by me, but I can't believe that _they_ would really want to see me.”

Adam looked at him without flinching. “Question is: do _you_ want to see them? And I mean it: _you_ have to choose. You've been as asshole. Let's even say that you've been a c..., well, you have done bad things. Join the club. We've got an Antichrist,” — he gestured towards himself — “and an _actual demon_. And an angel, which, trust me, it's no better than a demon. You've just been a _human_ asshole.”

“Which is worse, though. If I were a demon or an Antichrist I wouldn't have much choice — and you managed to choose anyway. But I was completely free to be better, right?”

Warlock couldn't actually tell if Adam's smile was mocking or affectionate. Adam was simply bursting with admiration for the job of his recently-adopted godfathers.

“Did you get to this conclusion on your own, or someone told you, or...” he asked.

“It just seems obvious to me. Isn't it?”

“No, it's not obvious. It's true, though. I think. That's what Crowley says, anyway.” Adam noticed that the mention of Crowley had induced the reaction he hoped for — Warlock had almost smiled. “Human beings can choose, so sometimes they're worse than demons, but they can be better than angels. So, you can choose to be better. Or do you want to wait? I don't know when the next Apocalypse's going to be, but I think we've still got some time.”

Warlock shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. Adam's words made sense, _but_...

Adam seemed lost in his tea. He was actually thinking back to something that his... _counterpart? was that the right word?_ had said.

“You know, I can't guarantee that I'm not using my powers. I don't think that I have any _supernatural_ powers left. But I've noticed that I can be very persuasive, mostly because... well, I look at people, and I see their stories.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I know you've been raised by two extraordinary people who one day disappear from your life, except for a short phone call on your birthday. Then I got in contact, and anyone could have seen that you were _starving_ for an actual friend. You messaged me from the loo of the White House.”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“You were in tears.”

“No... How do you know?”

“Spelling mistakes. I can tell. And I knew why, even before you mentioned your father's _fucked-up policies_. And I know that the guy over there is waiting for his boyfriend, and anyway he's too old for you. And I know you're wondering, and I prefer girls. A friend of mine prefers guys, but he's not your type, or maybe he is, he's as chaotic-neutral as you'd love to be. But anyway, the thing is, you've got to move your ass. Coming all the way here was a start. The bookshop's round the corner. But it's your choice — you know that. I'm getting another teapot, and we haven't touched those scones yet. More of the same, or do you want another mix?”

Warlock had spent his life surrounded by people who had a lot of power over other people. They usually enjoyed that power more than anything in the world, and they shouted a lot.

He could tell that this guy who was offering tea had more power than anyone he'd ever met — this guy had the power of not caring about power, but just caring about people.

He stared at Adam for a second.

“Same, please,” he said.

* * *

_London, Soho. Six years after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't._

_5pm._

“Listen, Adam... May I ask you something that might be rude, and you can tell me to _take a walk_ if you don't like it?”

“Go on, fam.”

“Why did you _actually_ contact me?”

“I was curious, fine. But it mostly was... guilt, I guess? I felt like I stole your place. The way those two dote on me, they must've done the same on you. But they no longer do — since you don't call, I should point out...”

“...yeah, it's on me. But I stole your place first.”

“Nah. It sounds like you needed them more than I did. Anyway, here is the bookshop.”

“It's... closed.”

“Oh, yes. Sorry.”

With a smile, Adam Young opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Warlock apologises to Aziraphale, Aziraphale surprises everyone.


	2. An Antichrist and a Non-Antichrist walk into a Bookshop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I will assume that the cutest thing was meant as a compliment, my dear boy; but I'd like to remind you that, where I come from, gossip is _rightfully_ frowned upon; that my bookshop and my current standing with the Celestial Hosts are _my_ business, both literally and figuratively; and that _taking Crowley_ is something that _I_ do, not _you_, nor anyone else. And I'd prefer that you wouldn't make fun of phrases that might be slightly out of fashion — at least, not until you've returned that copy of _Oscar_'s collected works which you took last month — without even asking, I might add. Granted, it was not a first edition, but I was quite fond of it.”_
> 
> Warlock needs to apologise. Aziraphale and Crowley need to protect a godson. Adam does what needs to be done.

_London, Soho._

_Six years after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't._

_5 pm._

“Aziraphale's office is over there on the left, there's a couch, it's comfortable — more or less. If there's a snake, that's Crowley,” said Adam, as if snakes in a bookshop, snakes who are also demons, and demons in general, were the most mundane thing [1]. “But I'm pretty sure _those two_ are _out for a stroll_, like the angel says.”

Warlock's mind was still reeling from how Adam had just opened a door that was clearly locked.

“You told me that you didn't have powers,” he said.

Adam didn't need to ask what he meant.

“Oh, the thing with the door was a gift from _them_,” he explained. “They _do_ have powers. Just look at this place — do you think that Aziraphale actually sells his books? He tries to[2], especially after he got a pay cut from...” — Adam pointed upwards. “But no. And thank goodness, they wouldn't even know where to start, if they were humans. They're the _cutest thing_, but...” He rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue. “Take Crowley and his car...”

A voice from the back room interrupted him. It was very soft, almost a sermon by an old vicar, yet slightly unsettling.

“I will assume that the _cutest thing_ was meant as a compliment, my dear boy; but I'd like to remind you that, where I come from, gossip is _rightfully_ frowned upon; that my bookshop and my current standing with the Celestial Hosts are _my_ business, both literally and figuratively; and that _taking Crowley_ is something that _I_ do[3], not _you_, nor anyone else. And I'd prefer that you wouldn't make fun of phrases that might be slightly out of fashion — at least, not until you've returned that copy of _Oscar_'s collected works which you took last month — without even asking, I might add. Granted, it was not a first edition, but I was quite fond of it.”

Both Adam and Warlock stopped in their tracks. Adam gulped and looked as guilty as Hell[4]. In the past two hours, Warlock had come to believe that nothing on earth could halt Adam's apparently unbreachable chatting, unless Adam wanted to[5], and he was instinctively terrified of anyone could do it without even showing their face.

But then another voice seemed to break the spell of the first one.

“Don't be a pain in the ass, angel. Not with my godsons.”

“_Our_ godsons,” replied the first voice, finally showing his face.

There was a tartan bowtie. There were an old waistcoat, a bit worn but donned with a nonchalance that turned its imperfections from shabbiness into effortless class; there was the golden chain of a fob watch. There were a light blue shirt, tan trousers with that perfect cut that never goes out to fashion, afternoon Oxford shoes. There was, in short, the essence of a _proper gentleman_.

And then there were the eyes. Light blue eyes, radiating pure and simple _love_.

The eyes were the only thing that the gentleman and Brother Francis had in common — and that was enough.

Warlock found himself sitting on the couch, and completely unable to recall how he actually got there. He was vaguely aware of the presence of Adam and Brother Francis — Nanny Ashtoreth was sitting just next to him, looking like the most handsome man ever, and positively beaming[6]. He could hear her voice, even if it was slightly deeper.

“Now, my boy, I'm not hearing any of that silly _‘sorry, mom's calling, gotta go’_ here. But you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to.”

“Nanny — I am sorry, _Nanny_?” said Warlock, breathlessly. “I don't even know what's your name...”

“For you, I can be Nanny. Or Crowley, if you want to be like everybody else.”

Warlock's feelings were tying up his gut. His tongue too.

“Can I... _Nanny_?”

“I told you, my darling boy, that's fine. I tend to be he of late, but with you — I don't mind.”

Warlock just stared at Nanny.

“Do you mind if I hug you, darling?” asked Crowley.

Warlock threw himself in his Nanny's arms. When he re-emerged, there were tears in his eyes, and someone was handing him a cup of tea.

“It's _Aziraphale_, if you don't mind,” the someone was saying. “It is _he_, just as it was six years ago. The title would be _Principality_, but I don't care for that.”

His tone was nothing like Brother Francis' — it was prim and proper, and a bit smug. And yet, in a way, it was kinder than the old gardener's — it was _respectful_. It was the voice of someone who expected Warlock to be his own person, not some clay to mould into a perfect boy.

It was also the kind of voice that instinctively prompts the etiquette training of a diplomat's son.

“How do you do...”

“How do you do, Mr. Dowling.”

“Warlock, Sir, if you wish.”

“Warlock, then.”

Aziraphale's smile hadn't faltered one bit.

Crowley had fought his way through six thousand years of human history, one almost-Apocalypse, Hell at its best[7] and Heaven at its worst[8]. He still hadn't found a way to fight Aziraphale's smile.

Adam decided to save his new-found friend.

“Aziraphale, he's sorry. Warlock, just tell him you're sorry, you've rehearsed the speech with me _ten times_, let it be for something. Crowley — you're the only proper family that guy's ever had, and you know it, and _fuck me_ you did a good job, and I mean it — the good job, not the _fuck me_. And we should be thinking about dinner.”

Adam Young had not lied to Warlock: he could make people do what he wanted them to do. Neither supernatural entities nor practical occultists[9] had actually been able to pin down whether his Antichrist powers were still there, or if they had faded as he had chosen the path of being human and he was simply able to choose the perfect words to influence anyone around him.

This meant that he had expected that his speech would've been followed by Aziraphale tearfully telling Warlock that all was forgiven and forgotten, Crowley realising that he had nothing to worry, and a free table at the nearest sushi place.

Nothing of that happened.

What happened was silence, and everybody staring at him as if he had just proposed to go for a swim in the Thames, starting with a somersault dive from the top of Tower Bridge.

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

Then Warlock saved Adam.

“I would like to apologise for my behaviour, at the party and throughout my childhood. I realise that I was a spoiled brat, to say the least; I could say that I was raised in a...” — Warlock rummaged in his mind for a synonym of _‘fucked up’_ that Aziraphale would find acceptable — “_complicated_ situation, but that would be a lousy excuse, and anyway I had the two of you looking out for me,” – he instinctively moved closer to Crowley — “so it would actually be worse.”

Aziraphale nodded.

Warlock drew a deep breath.

“I am sorry — no, I _apologise_ for not telling Annette to _fuck off_, and for...” — he squirmed uncomfortably — “laughing with the others when she called you a _f..._”

“Apologies accepted.”

“And I'm sorry about that stunt with the guns,” concluded Warlock, almost whispering.

“I'd blame that on... _cultural_ issues,” said Azirapahale. His voice was no longer icy.

“He uses it to ask his husband to _‘fix that bookshelf, dear, and incidentally, do you remember that time I turned a gun into a water pistol and saved you from discorporation?’_, so I'm the one who should forgive you that one, my dear,” said Crowley, cheerfully, “and I do, of course,” he rushed to add.

Aziraphale glared at his husband, who stared back with a grin.

Warlock felt as if he had bounced from Hell into Heaven[10].

“So, when are you planning to go back to your parents?” casually asked Aziraphale.

“I told them that I was researching colleges,” replied Warlock.

“As a rule, I do object to lies, and to the use of that word as a synonym for _university_,” said Aziraphale, paying no notice to Crowley's and Adam's joint eye-roll. Suddenly, his face turned serious. “In this case I think that it was a wise choice. Adam can take care of himself, as you might have noticed, and Crowley and I — well, we have our ways, of course. But if you're actually planning to leave your house and never go back as soon as you're legally allowed, discretion is paramount. It goes without saying that all of us will endeavour to do our best to help you — I have asked a few of my acquaintances if they could give you a job; you've had a fine education, and I believe you speak... three languages? four? And of course you can stay at our place until you find a roommate, a problem that I'm sure won't take too long to be solved,” he said, adding a wink for good measure.

Adam and Crowley stared at the angel, then at the American boy. Adam was used to take _others_ by surprise with his preternaturally knowledge of their lives — not the other way round. Crowley hadn't seen that conspiratorial and pragmatic attitude in Aziraphale since the Cold War.

Warlock just stared at Aziraphale.

“How do you... and _why?_” was all that he managed to say.

Aziraphale just smiled at him, and looked him in the eyes without flinching.

Warlock felt as if he had opened a door on a room that he didn't even know that was there. He felt like he could have a home. He felt hope, like he had never even imagined.

“I treated you like _shit_,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I was a coward.”

“Probably.”

“I don't deserve... what you're doing for me.”

“You don't deserve what they're doing to you.”

“You're an...”

“angel, yes. But it's not the only reason why I'm doing this, and, as you are a clever young man, you know it.”

Warlock tried to smile, but it just made him feel like he was about to burst in tears.

“Thank you,” he said. “And for the job, the house — I'll take anything, I don't want to be a nuisance. I just hope that they haven't noticed yet, or they'll send me to one of those _camps_, like...” he couldn't go on.

Aziraphale's voice was torn between cold rage and infinite pain.

“It happened to a few friends of mine too, I'll make sure that won't happen to you. Don't worry, my dear — I can keep up a miracle for a year, especially if it's just a matter of concealing a few details from people who already have their head...” — he turned to his husband — “how do you say, dear? _their head up their bottom?_”

“_Ass_,” murmured Crowley.

“There you go. Stupid people who don't want to see the beauty of Her creation. Now, as for your studies. I remember you were very interested in...”

He would've gone on to rank all the departments of all the universities in London, but Crowley shock had finally turned into a simple instinct which could be described as _protect children at all costs_, and Aziraphale had to abandon all hope of planning their godson's academic future anytime soon.

“If anybody hurtsss you, _I'll kill them_,” said Crowley. In all his millennia in the employ of Hell, he had never thought too much about causing pain — he wanted to win souls for his side, to cause mayhem; the pain was just collateral damage. When he thought back to this moment, he realised that he had been acting _like a human being_, and the thought scared him. But right there, he was being swept away by his train of thought.

“I'm going to _kill them_. If the angel doessssn't get to them firsst. I've seen what he can do with a ssssword, trusst me. They will sssuffer.”

“I will _always_ trust you, Nanny. And there's no need to hurt anyone, I'll be safe,” said Warlock, in his sweetest voice, and hugged him.

Aziraphale considered whether to join in the hug. _Maybe next time_, he thought. _Soon._ _She truly blessed me — my demon is really good with children._ He was beaming[11] with pride in his husband.

Warlock turned to Adam. He was smiling.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Told you,” replied the young man formerly known as the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness.

“You're good people,” said the young man formerly mistaken for the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness.

“We all do our best,” said Adam. “Especially _those two_. They're not people-people, so they've got to do _better_, you know?”

* * *

_Two angels'_ [12] _ bedroom in Soho._

_Six years after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't._

_10 pm._

“Darling?”

“Yes, angel?”

“Do you think I should have been... _nicer?_”

“Nah. We both know that _I_ am the nice one. And he needed to apologise.”

“They grow up fast.”

“Yep.”

“They will break our heart, won't they?”

“Yep.”

“They're worth it.”

“More than all of your good deeds, angel. They've got that ineffabile bit, right?”

“They do. Speaking of things that were not put into words...”

“...of course he can stay at our place. And I forgive you for not asking beforehand, even if I'm the one who'll have to miracle the extra space.”

“I love you, Crowley.”

“I love you.”

“We did a good job, after all, didn't we?”

“Almost human, angel.”

* * *

1 Thus proving that nothing is “mundane”, unless you get used to it, and if that happens — well, that's on you. [ return to text ]

2 Aziraphale didn't actually try. It was one of his New Year's Resolutions, and therefore doomed to fail. [ return to text ]

3 Just because you're an angel, it doesn't mean you're above double entendres. Especially if you're also a part-time book dealer in Soho. [ return to text ]

4 As a matter of fact, his very existence in this world proved that he was not as guilty as Hell. [ return to text ]

5 This was false, as Pepper had single-handedly proved on several occasions. [ return to text ]

6 But not _literally_ beaming. Demons don't have halos. On the other hand, Angels _do_ have halos. Unfortunately, their light tends to scare human beings, so they usually show them only to other angels. Or to the demon they had married, in exactly one case. [ return to text ]

7 Which was the worst. [ return to text ]

8 Which was _not_ the best. [ return to text ]

9 Plural. After listening to Anathema's detailed description of how to operate a theodolite, Wensleydale had asked her to teach him some magic. It had turned out that he was actually quite good at it. [ return to text ]

10 At least, that's how he would have described his elation. The other people in that room could have told him that, when it comes to feelings, Heaven is only marginally better than Hell. But they were also aware of the existence of a figure of speech called “metaphor”. [ return to text ]

11 Once again, not literally. He would have _literally beamed_ later that evening, but that is another story. [ return to text ]

12 One of the angels could have said that he had _sauntered vaguely downwards_. But his chest was currently doubling as a pillow for the other one's head, and “up” and “down” are quite relative concepts anyway. [ return to text ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it. I didn't even know that I was going to write it — until I was.
> 
> Comments are always very, very welcome. Don't be shy. Make me happy.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> If you leave a comment — because you liked it, because you found a spelling error, because you hated it but you read it all anyway — you'll make me happy!


End file.
